


Pour Some Sugar on Me

by orphan_account



Category: Metallica
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, M/M, Stripper!Jason, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 13:00:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21179834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: James has been dragged to a strip club for his birthday and is suffering majorly until he spots a dancer that makes his night.





	Pour Some Sugar on Me

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is...mess. It's only going to be this chapter and then the second one which is mostly going to be my attempt at smut so...sorry in advance 😭

James' POV.

I'd like to start by saying this was all _**Cliff's**_ idea. I'd wanted to pretend to be a responsible adult for once and and stay in for my birthday, maybe call the guys over to crack open some beers and find something shitty on tv before I inevitably passed out on the couch before the bittersweet reality that I was one year closer to death sunk in.

But _no._ That plan wasn't good enough for Cliff. It was _"Lame"_ and _"Vaguely depressing."_ as if I cared what _he_ wanted to do on_ my _ birthday. As if it wasn't bad enough he was lambasting me for wanting a quiet night in- like I didn't fucking party with him almost every night - he'd enlisted the guys for a good old fashioned guilt trip.

I almost told them all to fuck off, but they just had to go and send Kirk and his puppy dog eyes at me.

I can never resist the puppy dog eyes.

So here I am in a strip club for my 22nd birthday, praying for a meteor to hit the joint as Lars gets grinded on by a wild eyed blonde that calls himself "Bach." He's cute, but not quite my type.

None of the dancers are really sparking anything below the belt in me to be honest.

The guy on stage is fine enough, fit and pretty but still nothing to write home about, and I resign myself to a night of watching all my friends have fun while I drink myself under the table and wish I was in bed.

I'm so busy stewing in misery that I don't even register the MC announcing the next performer would be coming out soon, making spiteful eye contact with Cliff as he raises a glass to me from his place at the bar, a short guy hanging off his arm.

Where the _hell_ did Kirk run off to?

The music starts trailing off from the absolutely awful electronic whatever wide eyes had been gyrating to and Def Leppard starts blasting over the speakers. At least the soundtrack to my bender would be loud as all fuck.

Silver linings.

I'm taking another sip of my drink when the MC announces "Angel" and any thoughts I'd had about cracking up on what a cliche name that was for a stripper flatlined when he walked out.

**Ho-Ly Fuck.**

I wouldn't consider myself a very religious person, but if this man wasn't a vision sent by god himself I don't know _what_ is: He's the finest fucking thing on two legs and he's dressed up as a god damn cowboy. His hair bounces as he twists around the pole, oiled up body sparkling in the lights of the club as his hips swirl and writhe, practically fucking the pole in front of him while the other patrons roar their approval. The roar only gets louder when he strips out of his leather vest and chaps, leaving him in a black G-String, chest shining with glitter as he dances.

Am I drooling? No? Ok.

He catches my eye as he swings his body up the pole, a smirk playing on his lips, and I'm going for my wallet before I can even think about it. Angel comes down on his heels in a move I can only describe as _catlike,_ and then he's crawling towards me down the stage like a predator and its cornered prey.

I'm a deer in the headlights of lust and my dumbass can't move.

He stops in front of me on his hands and knees and I hold out a $20 bill, which he proceeds to begin taking between his teeth in a move that is both sexy and intimidating. We make eyes contact as the bill slowly slides into his mouth, and I didn't know people could _smoulder _outside of crappy harlequin books but he is, and the intensity in his eyes only furthers my desire.

The bill is well between his teeth before he pulls it out, reaching out to catch my wrist and run his tongue across the pad of my index like a snake, and the sight of it wrapping around my digits send a shocking bolt of _want_ to my cock as he stuffs the bill into the waist of his g-string and begins to suck my fingers with a fervor I haven't seen since- well, ever.

I'm unbelievably turned on by the show and could almost cry when he releases them with an obscene pop! in order to return to the pole and finish his routine. He continues to dance, and I stare, eyes wide as he's showered in bills. I honestly think I could watch him forever.

Unfortunately, the music begins to wind down, and he lowers himself down the pole to my dismay. Who the hell was going after him? How could anyone top that? I wasn't going to stick around to find out.

I was going to buy a dance.


End file.
